
m 



LIBRftRY OF CONGRESS 




015 908 764 5(5^ 



LJ--11: r-^w 



Copyright 1913 by 
T. H. KENDALL 

All Rights Reserved 



Published by The Hop^ood Press 
Aurora, Illinois 






CONTENTS 

FISHIN' FEVEH i. 

(Symptoms) 

WHEN THE MIGHTY MUSKY RUSHES 2. 

FORGET ME NOT 3. 
BUT ONLY FISHERMEN WILL UNDERSTAND 4. 

THE LURE O' THE LINE 5. 

CAUSALITY 7. 

THE CALL 8. 

THAT PISCATORIAL MICROBE 9. 

ON THE BANKS OF THE FOX 10. 

BECAUSE 1 1 . 

MY SORT O' LASS 12. 

MY CHRISTMAS TIE 13. 

MY NEIGHBOR'S CHURCH 14. 

THE WASTED DAY 15. 



THE LURE O' THE LLWE 



FISHIN' FEVEH 

(Symptoms) 

Wen de win blows wahm out ob de souf wes 
An de sod am springy lak undeh yo feet — 
Wen yo soul am full ob a nameless unres 
Lak a pup wat is had to much to eat; 
Wen yo get out yo tackle an men up yo poles 
An take de ole fishin line offn de reel, 
Wen yo try on yo boots des a lookin fo holes 
Oh \ordy ah knows ;es how yo feel 
En why yo is lookin sad. 

Ef yo yeorn to be settin on de banks ob de Fox 
Wen de trees am pink wif crabapple bloom. 
An de shiny ole tuttles am sunnin on de rocks, 
An de sof win am sweet wif springtime perfume 
Wen de willow tree nods to hitself in de stream 
An yo turn ober stones a lookin fo bait 
Ef yo long foh de ripple de tinkle and de gleam 
An don care to talk but just meditate 
Yo is gittin dat feveh had. 



Page 1 



By T. H. KENDALL 



WHEN THE MIGHTY MUSKY RUSHES 

I have felt exhiliration in the auto's lightning rush, 

Evading limitations and the law. 
I have felt my pulses quicken when I filled a bob-tail flush, 

Having raised the ante just before the draw. 
I have let the perspiration run down my smiling face 

As I cashed a winning ticket on a doubtful trotting race. 
But the finest of sensations, and one I love to feel 

Is of a cloudy afternoon in June 
To have my nerves set tinkling by the clicking of my reel 

When the Mighty Musky rushes with my spoon. 

I have even grown inflated o'er a pretty double shot, 

And split my thorax o'er a football scene. 
I have held the sheet or tiller on a winning racing yacht, 

And been capsized in waters rough and green. 
I have watched the market flutter like a sorely wounded 
bird. 
While my heart-beats and the ticker were the only 
sounds I heard. 
But the essence of sensations, like the fruit beneath the 
peel 
Is of a breezy afternoon in June, 
To have my blood set dancing by the music of my reel. 
When the Mighty Musky rushes with my spoon. 

With muscles tense and ready I firmly grasp my pole, 

I forget the rocking boat in which I stand. 
I forget my wife's relation, the salvation of my soul. 

My debts, my duties, and my native land. 
Cold chills of apprehension go up and down my spine, 

And I wonder at my folly in selecting such a line. 
'Tis the limit of the pleasure I have traveled miles to 
feel 

On this cloudy, breezy afternoon in June. 
When my heart is set to pounding by the protest of my 
reel, 

As the Mighty Musky rushes with my spoon. 



/^a^<? J 



THE LURE O' THE LINE 



WHEN THE MIGHTY MUSKY RUSHES— Cont. 

Now I dream of old Wisconsin and a poem of a lake, 

Of sighing pines and scented balsam bowers. 
Where I lose my heart to Nature once again, for her 

sweet sake. 

As I wander midst the sweet arbutus flowers. 
And in her perfect mirror watch again the fitful flight 

Of the firefly as it zigzags through the winking lights 
of night 
For there awaits a pleasure, may it oft be mine to feel. 

Where only echo's answer to the loon; 

And my dozing pulses waken to the calling of my reel 

When the Mighty Musky rushes with my spoon. 



'^ffl 



FORGET ME NOT 

'Tis nice to be remembered 

When the Yule begins to flow. 
And every one is busy 

With the holly wreaths and snow. 
And it matters not at all, 
Though the gift be poor or small, 
If you haven't been forgotten. 
Don't you know. 

For the Yule tide's past and gone, 

I have but this regret, 
That there isn't still as many 
Coming to me yet . 

And I know a glad old dad 
Who will certainly be sad 
If his children should be careless 
And forget. 



Page 3 



By T. H. KEXDALL 



BUT ONLY FISHERMEN WILL UNDERSTAND 

Today I took my fishpole from its case 
And with a gentle, reminiscent hand. 
Put every slender, supple joint in plice. 
The while I let my fancy romp and race. 
(But only fishermen will understand.) 

As I unwound the silken line from reel. 
Testing its strength by inches and by strand. 
The tug of tiger bass I seemed to feel. 
And still I let the pleasing fancy steal. 
(But only fishermen will understand.) 

With loving glance I searched my tackle througli 
To find what new requirements would demand, 
But when I found an old worn fly or two 
The tackle somehow faded from my view, 
(But only fishermen will understand) 

O summer day, O setting sun's red rim, 
O purple twilight creeping o'er the land, 
O tiger bass of vigor, strength and vim 
And bow bent rod that sang his requiem; 
(But only fishermen will understand.) 



I'aoe y 



THE LURE 6>' THE LIAE 



THE LURE O' THE LINE 

The Start 

A tackle-book, a look, a hook. 
Business pursuits again forsook; 
A pole, a goal, a fishing hole, 
A medicine for weary soul 

And stomach aches; 
A can of bait, a friend sedate, 
Who for a bite Vv'ill wait and wait. 
And wait and wait and wait; 
A reel, a meal packed in the creel 
And medicine, in case you feel 

Afraid of shakes. 
Up and away at break of day. 
With coffee and a sinker say 

And faithful pipe. 
The glad wheels roll. Oh bliss of soul. 
Oh sweet content and briar bowl. 
The reins you seize between your knees. 
And hold them with a vigorous squeeze 

And strike a light, 

II 

The Tragedy 

The spot is spied, the horse is tied, 

The lines slipped through each waiting guide. 

Oh happy day; 
The friend sedate looks for the bait. 
And most explosively doth state 

"That hell's to pay"; 
With efforts vain he looks again, 
Upon his face a dawning pain. 

Oh fate unkind, 
In spite of snakes and stomach aches. 
And other risks a fellow takes 

The bait was left behind; 
The river smiles, sings and beguiles 
Along its willowy winding miles 

Of hungry fishes; 
But without bait those fish must wait 
Until you find an open gate, 

For your vain wishes. 
You do not stint your words or hint 
At things this booklet would not print 

In any column; 
So rod in hand we let you stand 
While friend sedate is being damned 

And feeling solemn. 



Page 5 



Bv T. //. KENDALL 



III 

The Catcii 

Fresh bait is found by case and pound. 
And dug from rich, salubrious ground. 

Oh fears unfounded. 
But man is prone to kick and groan 
And swear that he, and he alone 

Is being pounded; 
As oft before you wade from shore. 
Along the river's slippery floor; 

Oh moment thrilling, 
You slide and slip but make the trip 
With waders fastened at the hip, 

And slowly filling. 
Oh river grass and tiger bass 
And dreams that linger loathe to pass, 

Dreams of a whopper; 
Your friend sedate pulls out the bait, 
And winking like a candidate 

Removes the stopper; 
Deep in the stream you catch a gleam 
And hear your reel protest and scream, 

You see a mighty tail, 
The bass or trout plunges about 
You strike, and in a moment shout 

"I've got a whale;" 
Oh happy reel, oh rod of steel. 
No words can tell the joy you feel, 

It makes you shiver. 
For you will show your friends, you know, 
How large the largest sometimes grow 

In old Fox river; 
From side to side that fish you guide. 
Now up, now down the racing tide. 

Oh lucky man! 
A bass or trout beyond a doubt 
You play him and at last pull out 

An old tin can, 
Your friend, meanwhile, begins to smile 
A vacuous, senseless, maddening smile; 

The emty headed wight! 
But as he grins he says that tins 
Are oft endowed with tail and fins 

And always full of fight. 



Pa,S[e 6 



THE LURE 6>' THE LINE 



THE LURE O' THE LINE— Continued 
IV 
The Return 

The brightest day will fade they say, 
While rivers sing upon their way, 

Down to the sea; 
The saddest tales of tongue or pen, 
Are told at times by fishermen 

Like you and me. 
The horse is led from out the shed. 
And homeward turns his patient head, 

A friend in need! 
The silent reel the empty creel 
Are eloquent of things you feel; 

Ah, yes indeed! 
But home at last the greetings passed. 
Your wife at first rebuked, then sassed 

Her lord and master. 
With humble mien and rests between. 
You painted each distressing scene. 

Each fresh disaster; 
Fishermen's luck in home or hut 
Is wetness, and a hungry gut, 

As you well know, 
Yet when you look in tackle-book 
And feel the lure o' line and hook 

Away you go. 

CAUSALITY 

It is what is waiting for a man 

When the day is done. 
The love, the wormth, the coolness or the hate; 

That makes the glorious sun peep through, 

Or dims and overcasts the blue 
When at night he bends his steps toward his gate. 

It is not the small successes, or 

The great ones he achieves. 
Nor does the sting of failure come to stay; 

But 'tis what may be in store 

When at night he seeks his door, 
That makes or mars the brightness of his day. 

Page 7 



By r. H. KENDALL 



THE CALL 

I know a fishing hole down on the Fox, 
Sheltered by trees and lined with mossy rocks, 
Where river grasses grow and vegetate. 
And hungry tiger basses lie in wait; 
About this time o' year my restless soul 
Just yearns for that blamed hole. 

I lovingly look thru my tackle book 

And discard every worn and doubtful hook; 

I carefully inspect my minnow pails 

And test the sein, its lead line and its brails; 

I clean and oil my reel and try my pole 

And dream of that blamed hole. 

I can see the sunlight dancing on the stream, 
And the slowly swirling eddies coaxing gleam; 
The lust of angling o'er my senses steal, 
Awakened by the music of my reel. 
As when a boy I from my studies stole 
Away to that blamed hole. 

Oh! springtime with thy birds and babbling brooks 
And windows filled with boats and boots and hooks, 
Thy bursting buds and weeping, smiling skies 
And fresh supply of lurid fishing lies. 
Thou hast aroused my piscatorial soul 
You and that blamed hole. 



Paire S 



THE LURE O' THE LINE 



THAT PISCATORIAL MICROBE 

Meh old eahrs keep a harkin' foh de niummeh ob de 
stream, 

Ise gettin' mighty hungry foh tase ob tigeh bass; 

Ah reckon ah is lonesom foh de tinkle and de gleam 

Ob de watah in de ribbah an' hit goes a slippin' pass. 

Wen ah fine a big fat fish wiim a-stickin' in his hole. 
Ah grab 'em by de collah, but he hang on mighty tight. 
An* somehow meh ole hoe-handle change into a fishin* 
pole, 

An' ah's sittin' on de ribbah bank a-waitin' for a bite. 

But ah wakes hup w'en dat angle wum done bruk himse'f 
in two 

An' wif his haid a-squirmin' in mah han' 

Ah say wot foh you temptin' me? With dis gardinin' 

to do 
Ise a right smaht busy niggah, undehstan'. 

But still ah keeps on hankerinn' foh my ole black fryin' 
pan. 

Ah can smell dat bacon brownin', ah can heah dat 
black bass siz; 

Foh dis triflin' bit o' gardinin' dey mus get some yuther 
man, 

Kase ah's goin' fishin', honey, deed ah is. 



Faf^e 9 



By T. H. KENDALL 



ON THE BANKS OF THE FOX 

Where the lily pad bends to the current's slow swing, 
And tliebutterrly drifts on its rose-tinted wing, 
When the trees are as green as the moss in the flume 

And the soft air is laden with woodland perfume. 
And the water laughs past, as it slips o'er the rocks, 
Way down on the tranquil old banks of the Fox; 

Where the sunlight sifts through, and only in spots 
Can be found the bluebell and forget-me-nots. 

Where the bob-o'-Iink sings as he mounts to the sky, 
And the tiger bass leaps to the deftly cast fly. 
Where the click of the reel and the swish of the line 
Seem somehow a part o' the shade and the shine. 
Far away from the city, its dams and its locks 
One can lie there and dream on the banks of the Fox. 

Yes, He there and dream in a long reverie 

While a robin pipes up in a far-away tree. 

And the song that he sings seems to fit in with yours 
As it floats up and down the quiet old shores. 

While you look at the sky o'er the rim of your hat 

And wonder how far it is beyond that 

To the beautiful gate which Peter unlocks, 
On the banks of a river beyond the old Fox. 

Now, when one has reached this condition of mind, 

It is lonly a step to where he may find 
Half hidden by trees, a wigwam of bark 
And wonderingly, his lips whisper "Hark!" 

For there in the dusk 'neath the hickory's shade. 

Is standing a shy little Indian maid. 

With legggings of buckskin and shortest of frocks. 
Way down on the mystic old banks of the Fox. 



Paze 10 



TJIK LURE (V THE LIXE 



ON THE BANKS OF THE FOX— Conilnuecl 

She daintily steps to the pebbly shore 
To a birch bark canoe (not noticed before) 

She takes up the paddle and wafts him a kiss, — 
He wakens and saj'^s "What the deuce is all tiiis?" 
And as his mind clears from the mist of his dream. 
The maid disappears in the mist of the stream; 
Then out from his pipe the ashes he knocks. 
And slowly turns home from the banks of the Fox. 



BECAUSE 

She waits for me when I homeward go 
Waits, with love in her pretty eyes, 

With merry feet and a glad hello; 

She waits for me when the sun swings low 
Way off in the western skies. 

And just because of her winsome voice, 

Her love and her purity, 
How can I do — aught but rejoice; 
And make the ways of truth my choice 

Because of her faith in me. 



I\i;e J J 



By T. H. KENDALL 



MY SORT O' LASS 

I'm for the lass who when she loves a lad. 
Is not ashamed to take his toil stained hand; 

She is the sort that makes life sweet and glad 
Because she has both common sense and sand. 



He drives a noisy old delivery wagon; 

Its rattle may be heard two blocks away; 
His job is not the sort that one would brag on. 

But he looks forward to a brighter day. 

The sunshine through the clouds may not be showing, 
But still he sings and climbs up to the seat; 

Because he knows that coming or a-going. 

He will pass a certain house far down the street. 

A modest house where he is almost certain 

To get a happy nod, a smile or two, 
And see a glad face circled by a curtain; 

'Tis then the tardy sunshine filters through. 

Sometimes they meet, of course 'tis accidental; 

She trips along the sidewalk sweet and slim. 
And does not care a single continental 

What folks might say if she should ride with him. 

And so he helps her up into the wagon. 

Her feet caress the foot board old and bent. 

His job is nothing very much to brag on. 
But some ways it beats being President. 

The rattle seems to grow soft and caressing 
As Cupid takes the reins and drives the nag; 

I say again, but now I'm only guessing. 

His job may be the sort o'er which to brag. 



I'm for the lass who when she loves a lad. 
Is not ashamed to take his toil stained hand; 

She is the sort that makes home sweet and glad 
Because she has both common sense and sand. 



Pa^e 12 



THE LURE 6>' THE LIXE 



MY CHRISTMAS TIE 

I sport a new tie now a-days. 

'Tis a corker in several ways. 

If I wear it at night 

We turn out the light 

And the family all bask in its rays. 

I found it on our Christmas tree. 

*Twas put there by Santa you see. 

A Santa who spent 

Her last treasured cent 

On this lurid creation for me. 

'Tis so warm that it smokes when I tie it, 

And so loud I can't hear my friends guy it. 

You will smile I suppose 

But by cracky it goes, 

And you haven't enough cash to buy it. 



\ 



For I know a wee lass whose blue eyes 

Would fill up with pain and surprise 

If she thought that her dad 

Wouldn't swear that he had 

The lalapaloosa of ties. I 



« 



Page 13 



By T. H. KENDALL 



MY NEIGHBOR'S CHURCH 

I do not seek a man-made church, he said; 

In which to worship God on bended knee, 
The arching roof of azure overhead. 

This rug of green by kind old Nature spread; 
Is church enough for me. 

No psalm of praise by human voices sung. 

Is sweeter than the hymn the brown thrush sings, 

No faith propounded by a mortal tongue 
Is greater than the faith of growing things; 

The flowers that spring rejoicing from the sod 

Tell me there is a just and loving God. 

If I but do as does this golden-rod, 

My best with what the Lord has given me, 

I will not need to ask a patient God 
To grant forgiveness for delinquency; 

If I am true as is this sturdy vine. 

Health, happiness and power will all be mine. 



Page 14 



SfP 2? m 



THE LUKE (r THE LINE 



THE WASTED DAY 

He was blind to the far away flash and gleam 

As he sat alone on the rivers rim, 
The coaxing voice of the happ}^ stream 

Said nothing at all but fish to him; 
He did not notice the willow bend 

And play with the waves as they loitered by, 
But he often scowled at his rods far end 

And the gauzy shape of the dragon fly; 
He was deaf to the sweet entrancing song 

Of the Bobolink in its upward flight, 
For him the day was dull and long 

Because the fish refused to bite; 
Unfortunate indeed is he 

Who will not either hear or see. 

The wild rose growing neath the hedge. 

The brooklet singing on its way, 
The sunny slope, the shady ledge. 

The Thrush piping a roundelay. 
The tall rank grasses along the shore 

W^here red winged black birds swing and sway. 
The drops that drip from the lazy oar 

All serve to make a happy day; 
Oh Lord we thank thee for thy gifts, 

With us alone the secret lies, 
We will it— and the curtain lifts 

Revealing bits of paradise. 



Pa^e IS 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



015 908 764 5 



